


Little Light

by skauldcube



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Drabble, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Minor Spoilers, boy i die boy, gender neutral reader, this was not edited and it was late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27448021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skauldcube/pseuds/skauldcube
Summary: Alternatively titled: I’m very late to the Drifter party and looking forward to Beyond Light. I wanted to write something nice before something bad happens. I picked Destiny 2 back up just recently.
Relationships: The Drifter (Destiny)/Reader
Kudos: 20





	1. Orbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some grief about Beyond Light. Some soft Drifter.

You take pause, thumbing the jade pendant in your grip. It showed signs of wear. You briefly recall how it came to you. Your sneaking under the vanguard had led you into the snake den of Gambit. Cajooled by a shiny green coin, tucked discreetly into the “Chosen One’s” armor and robes.

You’re not sure how he managed it. Or if it was even him, and not some guardian doing some legwork for him. But you knew the Drifter had always been watching. He’d promises up to his eyeballs in what your partnership could do. He was so eager then. And you were too, moreso than you would have admitted. Now you wonder how much Cayde’s passing fueled your descent into the Drifter’s arms. Your ghost admonished you for it, as you recovered. He didn’t trust the way the Drifter hid and coiled around his words. Or the glint in his eye as he tucked a coin away from a trick. He stuttered nervously under his gaze and often hid himself away. Not without a little peek at you, as if he was searching for some sort of confirmation.

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe in Zavala. You knew he was important now more than ever. The dark closing in was all the worse for the vanguard, and you’d been feeling the pressure. The work expected from you kept you entirely busy, and usually offworld. Meaning you’d been away from Gambit lately. Away from the Drifter. Your remaining contact existed in the work you’d done for Eris, clearing motes on Titan and tying up loose ends. He spoke impersonally in front of her, but you could hear the truth hanging like a thin little thread above both of your heads.

“That’s all you got, Chosen One?” He chuckled over your communications.

“From one who is not present.” Eris spoke in your defense.

Your helmet hid your intent expression. Your face screwed up in frustration as you mowed down fallen. It’d been like this for weeks. The threats still loomed, and you were here. Picking up garbage until the new, worse threat arrived. It hadn’t been like this. You’d been picking up the parts of yourself you’d lost between the cracks since the death of Uldren sov. And you’d done it in Gambit. And on deck of the Derelict, swapping stories and saliva with the man speaking in tandem with the former lightbearer. He’d taken you in, and at the time.. it was a welcome distraction. That’s what you tried to justify it as. 

One particularly well aimed arc of pulse energy tears across your helmet. Electricity shoots off in tiny sparks and fissures. It leaves a great black scorch. The force if it snaps your head back, tearing you away from your thoughts. And you yell and bare down, throwing yourself at the cloaked fallen and aiming a shotgun blast into its chest. You fire a few more for good measure. It lay limply on the metalwork. Sighing, you drag a hand down the front of your helmet and brush away the fallen debris. It takes you a moment to realize you weren’t alone. A stray guardian tilts his head at you serenely, and you realize that the bank had been filled to capacity. He reached a hand out, waving a few fingers in a small greeting. His fireteam would have done the same if you hadn’t left mere moments after.

It was after hours in the annex. You’d spent the evening working up the courage to come down here. You considered it a sort of laughable thought. The stoic guardian, slayer of Oryx. Slayer of any other plethora of nameable beasts in the solar system. And you were afraid of a trickster and a cheat. But you’d pointedly tried to distance yourself. And the Drifter wasn’t stupid. Other guardians would have noticed, and talk travels fast on the tower. He had eyes and ears in any of the loitering guardians who regulared Gambit for him. But you knew they’d be away now. Off planet, or asleep. And for the curious? The Drifter would send them on their way as quickly as they’d pop in. He didn’t like to cater to guardians at night. Too much could happen, he’d say. without the usual influx of guardians in the annex.

The last steps echoed under your boots. Terribly loud despite the ambience. Metal against metal toed from your boots. He definitely heard you. Your only protection against his gaze and your sorry expression as you turned the corner was your helmet. Still scorched, you’d left it there as a reminder. The Drifter wasn’t in his usual perch. Instead, he worked over the bench. He didn’t turn around when you entered.

“Gambit’s done for the night. Unless you have business with Drifter.” 

“None here.” 

You quipped dryly. You thought it’d relieve some of the awkward tension you felt. You watched him pause, turning over the weapon in his grip and sliding his gaze over to you.

“Well isn’t this a surprise, here I thought you were back to the light and shiny head for good.” He spoke with mirth. It was non-committal. “Unless you’re here to arrest me. By all means, go ahead.”

“And miss out on the fun?”

He set the firearm down. Slowly, he detached himself from his work and begin to approach you. You watched him stride, and how he caried himself with a careful swagger. You felt his dark eyes slot over yours for a moment and glazed over the mask.

“You’ve got a sick sense of fun, guardian.” 

“I take offense.” You trail off as he approaches. “But..” You pause, and then disengage your helmet. “I might agree.”

You can’t tell if he relaxes. But his hands aren’t twitching, and you haven’t seen a coin. He even smiles at you. You savor his toothy grin and finally lock eyes with the snake. And impossibly, they soften. 

“You don’t have to explain why you were moping about.” He spoke your thoughts. “Hell, I’d be in your place too. Everyone asking’ me to do things while the world’s goin to hell.” 

You take a few steps forward. 

“Here I thought you’d be asking me to do things, too.”

You let yourself collapse into his arms. And he folds into you, capturing your armored form to his. The Drifter didn’t need words to explain this. He knew how cheap they could be. You’d done this for a few cycles. Fall back into him under the promise that you’d be gone, or ready to leave. But you weren’t sure what awaited you when time finally bent you into leaving his arms.

“Hey, you can’t be comfortable like that. Why don’t we head up to the derelict? Just you and me.”

You nod your agreement. The Drifter prepares the transmat, disengaging from you to work the machine until you’re both in orbit. He lets you fall apart. He wrings the misery out of your words until there’s nothing left. He’s there, slotting small kisses against your throat and enveloping you in the scent of gunmetal and leather. It’s a small time before either of you speak.

“Little light, why do you trust me?” The Drifter asks with a sudden serious air. 

“I don’t know.” You reply shortly. “Maybe you were there when the light wasn’t. Maybe that was your plan.” 

“The Drifter, plan?” He jabs in humor. “No planning, schemin, or feigning here.” 

As his gaze lingers downward he catches glimpse of the guardian’s peaceful expression. They were fast asleep. Their breath comes out in quiet puffs, puncutated by the rise and fall of their chest. The Drifter was malicious, and a cheat. And he was selfish. But he couldn’t help being selfish with the figure splayed across his bed. There were so many words he could say to them. He could reassure them that the dark would keep the collapse away, or that the second collapse wasn’t at their doorstep. But in the end, that’s not what they’ve needed. Not when Cayde died. Not on the moon. The Guardian. the Chosen One, was stronger than the Drifter knew he’d ever be in his long lifetime. They’d been more than what he’d intended since they made their way into his Gambit so long ago. Creeping back into his life and drifting away, only to be drawn back into his arms as humanity sunk into threat after threat. 

“Of course, maybe just one.”


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another small scene of drabble about the Drifter. Just something soft. Prompt was: Over dinner.

“..Are you sure about this, guardian?” The Drifter slowly asks. 

You remember sitting adjacent to The Drifter weeks ago. You both had noodles balanced precariously in your laps. Around you laid napkins and the other remainders of the meal. It was a habit at this point. One that was fueled by your rather.. lax knowledge of cooking. Sure, hive gods were easy picking. But preparing a high class meal was way above your pay grade. 

“Yes. Well, no.” You wring your hands together over the stove. “I thought it’d be nice. Just us.” 

“It’s mighty romantic of ya, guardian, but-“ He gestures to the front of his robes. Sticky globs of dough pepper the front of it. Flour has settled into his hair. The bandana that regularly adorned his head had sauce awkwardly smeared into it, as if he had used it as a napkin in a hurry.

“Fine dining aint my strong suit.” He concedes.

You struggle to hold back a laugh that was downright nearly domestic. He looked unbothered by the chaos of the kitchen. In fact, it hardly looked different. It didn’t help that the derelict wasn’t exactly built for this. The Drifter kept it as messy as one could expect, if his workshop was any indication.

“I think it’s befitting.” You respond, suddenly stoic. “But here.. let me get that.” Shifting over to lean towards his face, you sift flour into the palm rests behind your back. He grimaces in mock defiance as you gingerly brush away some stray sauce. 

“You’re too sweet.. man like me might get the wrong idea.” He drawls, satisfied with himself for a mere moment.

The Drifter is met with a face full of flour. The sound it makes as it claps into the air is drowned out by his yell of surprise. You jump back and brush the hand clean. The Drifter pounces. You clammer backwards over cans and junk, narrowly avoiding displacing the portable stove. The Drifter manages to grab you. Just as you leave the threshold of the cooking space he has you by the arm. You see a sauce tin go wide as you fall under his weight through peals of laughter.

He holds you there, making sure to spread every inch of flour over you as well. The cakey dust makes his toothy expression ever the more ridiculous as he hovers over you. 

“Do you even know who I am?” The Drifter feigns seriousness. You realize, abashedly, you’ve heard him speak like this before. Albeit, in a much different setting.

“Covered in flour,” You say between gasps of laughter.

“Why?” 

The Drifter seems to remember where he is. His head lifts from where it’d been playfully nibbling your neck. He stares behind him, watching the pasta water bubble over and at the red crest of sauce now splattered on the Derelict wall. 

“I didn’t think I’d hear you this happy again.” He admits. And for once, he seems unsure. His eyes were dark and elusive. 

“With you, I think.” Your response was coy, and you know he counts it lucky you spoke at all. There were a great deal of things you couldn’t admit.

“The Derelict helps me remember why. But ..why’d you stop?” You ask.

“What, beating on you?” He exaggerated and enunciated his point by nipping at your neck once more. You smell the marinara wafting off of him from your shared attempt at trying to create something edible.

“Cooking.” You place a hand on his face and shove him away. He resists, cackling. Most of the ingredients have migrated from their rightful places.

The clean up was excruciating. Not helped by your companion, who took every chance to provide such saccharine commentary. He stopped you from tossing a few spare noodles in the waste bin. 

“Dust em off! They’re still good.” He claimed, eyeing your bounty and raising his brow. 

You gave him a long look before fully disposing of them. With how he kept the Derelict you could never be too sure. It certainly wasn’t the peak of cleanliness. And, in truth, you didn’t want to start encouraging that behavior either. It took a lot for him to let his guard down, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of his survival instinct was compulsory. 

But now you were finally seated. A table had been set out. It was a foldout, but still decent looking with a blanket strewn over it. The fabric hung unevenly over the sides but was an elegant red. Probably for the best, too. A singular rose sit in an empty can. That was the part that surprised you the most- it was still living. The petals were soft and sweet smelling still. All you could feel was warmth. Warmth at his antics, and at showing you his commitment to keeping up .. whatever you could call this. 

The Drifter had never pushed you away. Not in the sense that he hated you. But he’d made you keenly aware that your talents were something he admired. Wanted even. But as visits to the Annex continued so did your draw for the enigmatic man. Gambit was your key to a man unlike any light bearer you’d met before. 

You snap out of your trance as the Drifter comes back into view. He has two plates balanced in his arms. Crudely shaped noodles lines the plates, topped in a significant amount of aromatic sauce. Though perhaps a bit more tinny and metallic than the recipe had once called for. There is one larger light drawn over the table to better illuminate the meal. It looked hastily setup, but you couldn’t help but to appreciate the effort. The whirlwind of your combined efforts finally dies down and you’re left to sit opposite the Drifter. Slightly hunched on the smaller chairs he provided. 

“So.. er, this how it s’pposed to taste?” He breaks the silence. He’d taken a few bites already. inhaling the flimsy looking noodles. You blink.

“I’m not sure,” You say around a mouthful. “It’s not ramen.” You finish.

You read the recognition in his face. He’s eating more slowly now, eyes drifting off to stare outside the Derelict. You flick a speck of remaining dough from your shoulder. 

“We’ve had it good.” It’s a statement. “I’ve had it good, parading around with the Traveler’s golden one! Hell,” He exclaims. “I didn’t think I’d ever have.. cooking a spaghetti dinner with someone in me.”

The Drifter had opened up a lot. But he had centuries under his belt. There were things you wouldn’t be able to fathom, despite how long you’d been revived. The Dark Ages were so incredibly different. He was a man of walking history.

“Kind of funny, though,” You say with a small start. “I..” You drift off.

“I? Come on now, don’t be shy.” Drifter prompts, leaning into his usual routine. He liked to pick at you, unrelenting when you let him.

“Drifter, what do I call you?”

“Call me?”

“When you’re done drifting. If you’re ever done.”

He freezes. You see his eyes narrow as he gazes at you. One gloved hand picks up can by your plate. You hold your breath.

“You didn’t hear it from me, kid,” He plucks the rose from the can. Slowly he holds it up to his lips. “But.. it’s Eli. Don’t wear it out.” 

And then he takes a bite out of the flower.

**Author's Note:**

> i love this clowny man


End file.
